


Leave Me Your Wake

by AlwaysBoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysBoth/pseuds/AlwaysBoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach.<br/>For the last two years you have been his blogger, agent, partner, student, keeper, friend. For the last two years he's said "dangerous" and you came running. For the last two years you have been Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. And now? What are you now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave Me Your Wake

Your limp came back around the time of the funeral. No one said anything, but you know they all noticed. They were all watching you. Mrs. Hudson was the only one who would dare talk to you. Everyone else was too guilty or self-satisfied. They understood, in a way that _he_ never did, that you would be upset with them on his behalf.

It wasn't about you. None of it was ever about you. It was all about him. All the time. And... well... you didn't resent him that. Instead, you built a life around it, and what on earth are you supposed to do with yourself now that he's gone? For the last two years you have been his blogger, agent, partner, student, keeper, friend. For the last two years he's said "dangerous" and you came running. For the last two years you have been Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. And now? What are you now?

As far as anyone can tell, anyone who isn't an autistic genius consulting detective, it's as though the last two years of your life never happened. You're back in a bedsit, working surgery as you can, looking for steady, boring employment. You have a psychosomatic limp, an intermittent tremor in your hands, and you hardly sleep from nightmares... though the nightmares are sometimes a relief. Sometimes you dream of _him_. You're back on Baker Street, both of you in the sitting room, every so often he might say something to you, or vice versa. Sometimes he'll be running an experiment or fiddling with his violin. It all feels so normal, and you wake up thinking he'll be there, only to have to face the reality that he's dead again. It's why you had to leave Baker Street. You would go days thinking he was just out on a case. After you'd called Lestrade wondering if he'd seen him, you knew you couldn't live in that fantasy home any longer.

You stopped talking to anyone you met through him. Blocked Lestrade's texts, ignored Mrs. Hudson's posts. Your blog was abandoned. You tried talking to Harry once, but you could see she was still drinking in all the little cues he had once pointed out to you. You wondered, sometimes, if it wouldn't just be better to leave London, but the very thought sends a knife through your heart. So you stay. You limp, you ache, you drown your sorrow in tea. You ignore everyone you knew, avoid the places you went, but once a week you take an hour to walk down Baker Street or sit in the cafe.

After a while, you adjust to this. You don't sleep if you don't have to work the next day, and the days you do sleep you take a little something to help it along. You even nod to the Irregulars when you catch sight of one you recognize.

You meet a woman at the surgery, Mary. You can tell by the look of her that she won't last long, even before she has any tests done. You couldn't pinpoint the signs like _he_ could, but they speak to you nonetheless. Her doctor is hopeful. You aren't. You talk to her anyway.

"Why so serious?" She asks, and there's a laugh in her voice. She's dying, but there is always, always mirth in her tone. Like the world is a punchline and everyone else has missed the joke. You try to smile for her sometimes. You know you generally fail. She doesn't comment, but from the extra gleam in her grin, you can tell she at least appreciates the effort.

There's something about her that attracts you. You're not entirely sure what it is, perhaps it's just that optimism that you don't have enough of in your life, but you don't question it too much just in case it _is_ her blatant mortality. She appreciates your company, and you actually end up on a few dates. She goes into remission about five months after you start going out. You finally introduce her to Harry (who has also started seeing someone. Whoever this woman is, she seems to be setting your sister straight. You approve.) and you even dare to invite her on a walk down Baker. This is the first she hears of _him_. You run into Mrs. Hudson right outside 221 and she pulls you both in for a cuppa.

Mary had heard of him vaguely, who hadn't, but it's been a year since then and things have settled down. She believes you when you say he was a good man. You're not sure she would have liked him, but who did? You're not even going to bother wondering if he would have liked her. Two months later, when you and Mary are looking for a place together, Mrs. Hudson offers you 221B. You entertain the thought for a brief second, but just looking at the stairs still sends a spear to your heart, and you think it would feel like some kind of betrayal to bring Mary into the space that had been yours, you and him... which, perhaps, is silly (he would certainly scoff at the thought of such sentiment) and alludes to something big, but you're not going to think about that, or him.

Instead you move somewhere a bit further, a bit quieter. You get a good job at a nice surgery and settle into a pleasant, boring life. Mary, bless her, understands when you get restless and doesn't ask questions if you come home soaked in sweat or bruised. She smiles at you, kisses you, hands you a cup of tea, and goes back to her work. And if you ever get caught up in memories of him, she judges your state and either lets you be or sets you straight. She's so strong, and more than you could have ever asked for. You marry in the spring.

She relapses three months later and you bury her as the leaves begin to fall.

You sometimes feel bad, that her death doesn't affect you the way his still does. You both knew it was coming though. You even before you'd truly met. And Mary... You had loved each other, truly, but you had never been a necessity to life. You had cohabited, and she was among your greatest friends, but you had never been codependent in the way you and Sh- the way you and he had never admitted you were.

You can't afford to stay in the home you and she created, and you don't really want to. Though your life is not over without her, it is still painful to live in that reminder of what you have lost. Limited on options, you finally concede defeat to Mrs. Hudson and move back into 221B. It's hard for a while. There are still nights that you wake with the ghost of a melody in your head and you can swear he's only just put down the bow. You've taken the skull out of storage and returned it to it's place on the mantle. Next to it, pinned with a small knife, sits your wedding ring. Sometimes you'll get caught up in staring at them both before catching sight of your haggard appearance in the mirror. They would both deride you for letting yourself go in this way. For getting so caught up in the past that you won't keep going...

So you do. You go to work. You straighten the place up. You eat, and try to sleep. Eventually, you move on. You even grab a drink with Lestrade when you run into him one day. He asks forgiveness for ever entertaining a doubt about the character of your mutual headache. You tell him the offense is not yours to forgive, and then move on to, if not happier, then at least less depressing topics.

You still work at the surgery back near your old place. It's a little bit of a trek, comparatively, but it's worth it for the pay. You can't afford to take the taxi everywhere like you did back when you were at 221B before, though, so it's the tube for you. It becomes just another routine. And though you still have the limp and you know your frown lines are deepening, you can at least appreciate the comfort routines can give.

And then, one day, you're sitting on the train, waiting for it to reach your station, and you notice a note stuck to the window across from you.

[ I believe in Sherlock Holmes.  
            #believeinsherlock      ]

And in this note, you know that, whether he's really dead or not, the fight is still going. The war isn't over yet. You're still needed on the battlefield.

Your muscles ache from disuse, but you don't care. You don't remember the last time you smiled. And you think, maybe, finally, you're going to be okay. When you get off the tube, you leave your cane behind.


End file.
